


The Room of Hidden Things

by IamShadow21



Series: Abandoned, Unfinished and Unpublished Potter Works [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Advanced Potion Making, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Compliant, Dark, Gen, Good Slytherins, Muggleborn Slytherin, Muggles, Post - Half-Blood Prince, Second War with Voldemort, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Snatchers, Unpublished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-26
Updated: 2007-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All she wants is somewhere to hide the <i>thing</i> her roommates hid in her bag. Instead, she finds a book filled with spells and potions, a book that gives her the means to fight back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Room of Hidden Things

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first story in a projected series, an arc following Snape's copy of Advanced Potion Making through many sets of hands, before ending up in Professor Neville Longbottom's office, of all places, where it is discovered by a visiting Harry, long after the war. I never let go of this idea, and I was a bit sad that I never ended up making it work. This first story is complete, and was a bit of a study into what it might be like for a Muggleborn sorted into Syltherin, in the build-up to the Second War with Volemort. It's rough in places, but I really am quite proud of it, and I'm a bit said that the other parts that I began seem to be missing. I'll keep looking, and if I find them, they'll go up too.

Her feet slapped the floor, echoing loudly in the empty corridors. Tears painted her face with salt, and she was drawing breath in deep, irregular gulps. The jeers and sniggers of her roommates still rang in her ears.

 _I need a place to hide it... I don't want anyone to see... I have to find somewhere to hide it..._ The words tumbled through her head over and over like a mantra. She knew her feet were leading her in a convoluted path, but right at that moment, she was too upset to care.

 

**************************************

 

Three years ago, the letter had arrived that had changed everything. A knock at the door one evening had heralded the arrival of a most unusual visitor who handed her a curiously thick envelope. Inside was a stunning shock. She had been offered a place at Hogwarts. The strange person explained that Hogwarts was the best school in the country for children like herself. "What, troublemakers?" her father had quipped. 

Though her father's comment had been jokingly intended, she felt a stab of hurt and anger. It wasn't her fault that nobody seemed to like her, and that odd things occasionally happened to those who were particularly cruel to her. Like the boy across the street who had somehow tripped over his own feet, immediately after he pelted her with marbles from a slingshot. He had fallen awkwardly, breaking his collarbone. Though when he was questioned about it he insisted that _she_ had done it, he couldn't explain how that could be possible when she had been lying under the beech tree in her own front yard reading a book at the time. Despite the apparent impossibility, she felt twinges of a terrible sick feeling for weeks. She couldn't help but feel that somehow she was responsible.

Another odd occasion involved her pretty, popular sister, who had been chosen to sing the lead in the school musical. While their parents weren't around, her sister rubbed it in mercilessly. Her parents unintentionally made things worse. They were understandably proud of their elder daughter's achievement, and gushed enthusiastically to friends and other family members. She, however, was cast as "Dancing Tree #2", and although her mother made her costume, and insisted that they were proud of both their daughters, a cold fist of jealousy had closed around her heart.

Come the day of the performance, her sister awoke without her voice, able only to make a strangled, squeaking sound. The lead role was given to an understudy, her sister was inconsolable, and she herself revelled in the guilty thrill of satisfaction.

Though none of the odd things that happened around her during her childhood was ever traced conclusively traced to her, she began to be viewed with suspicion by her parents. One horrible afternoon she accidentally overheard her mother saying to a friend on the phone about her: "I never know whether to believe her or not. She's so sly, and almost spiteful sometimes. I shouted at her the other evening about leaving muddy footprints in the kitchen, and then, less than an hour later I found my favourite vase, broken on the floor. She said she hadn't touched it, but she looked so guilty when I asked about it that it must have been her." The children in the neighbourhood and at school treated her with a mixture of fear and ridicule. She was a weirdo, a freak, a loner, a teacher's pet. But this! This was a chance, a fresh chance. 

On the Hogwarts Express, she sat in a corner, content to read her new school textbooks and ignore the bustle and chatter filling the train. With a nervous thrill she walked the Great Hall, to sit on the stool and have the Sorting Hat placed on her head by Professor McGonagall. 

A small voice muttered in her ear. "Hmmm... tricky. Intelligence, courage... determination and ambition too... where shall I place you, I wonder... ?"

_Just give me a chance to prove myself... I'll be the best, I know I will. I know I can be..._

"Mmmm... interesting... " the voice remarked, as if it had heard her thoughts. "Better be... SLYTHERIN!"

With her heart light, she had run to join her new housemates' table to cheers and applause. She could do this! She could succeed in this strange new world, away from everything she'd ever known.

Within half an hour, her dreams began to slowly crumble. While gorging themselves on the delicious food that had appeared out of thin air, her tablemates began discussing family lineage, history and family connections. She half-listened, intrigued, while she finished her apple crumble. It seemed almost like some odd sort of game to which she didn't know the rules. She was still trying to muddle it out when suddenly the conversational spotlight blazed onto her.

"Which family are you from?" the boy opposite her asked, forcing her into speaking. Several others looked at her, mildly curious, wondering perhaps where she fit in to this elaborate order.

"Um... I don't know..." she began, helplessly.

"Which _wizarding_ family? Who are your parents?" came again the unavoidable question, this time more clearly and loudly enunciated, as if he thought her slightly deaf or simple. More eyes focussed on her, sharper now, colder.

"Oh... my family... they aren't wizards, it's just me... "

Before she was halfway through this statement, she knew she had said something irrevocably wrong. The boy's lip curled in a sneer, a girl next to him let out a nasty giggle, and the children on either side of her shuffled away slightly, as though she were somehow contagious.

"Oh, _dear_ ," the boy murmured, eyeing her with distaste, as if she had just vomited into her dinner plate. "They really are letting _anyone_ in these days, aren't they?" before turning to his bench mate and ignoring her completely again. Though no one else spoke to her throughout the meal, she had the sense that people nearby were casting her odd glances and speaking in soft whispers about her. Even the unusual arrival at the end of the meal by a frightening looking man that the Headmaster introduced as a new teacher, and the announcement of some kind of inter-school sports competition couldn't distract her from the feeling that something had gone very, very wrong.

Before it had even truly started, life at her new school was a misery. Her roommates either pretended she didn't exist, or carried out cruel practical jokes. Inkbottles were emptied into her bed and her possessions were damaged, or disappeared altogether. She learnt after the first term to not take anything to school she was emotionally attached to. All attempts at friendly conversation were rebuffed or ridiculed. When in desperation she tried to befriend others in her classes not in Slytherin house, they took one look at her green and silver tie and badge, and she would see the same suspicious look she recognised from home creep into their eyes. Nothing had changed.

Now in her third year, the hazing was increasing at an alarming rate. Every new term, her roommates seemed to have discovered a new jinx or hex over the break to practise - on her. At times it got so bad that she thought rather wildly about speaking to Professor Snape, her Head of House, but always changed her mind. Though he had seemed pleased enough with her work in his Potions class her first two years at Hogwarts, to be honest, he frightened her a little with his stern demeanour and acid tongue. She couldn't see him as someone to confide in.

Today had seemingly reached an all-time-low. It had started suspiciously quietly. She woke, dressed and made her way to breakfast without incident. The others left her alone. It wasn't until she was sitting in her first class and opened her bag to take out her quill and parchment that she realised what had been done. Her books had had their pages slashed and the covers daubed with crude approximations of the Dark Mark. Her quills had been broken and her parchment scrawled with rude words, jibes, and Pureblood supremacist slogans, all of which had been charmed to appear to be written in fresh, still-wet blood. But these trivial annoyances were not what made her blood run cold and draw her hand back in alarm.

It was a small, dark coloured object she almost missed seeing. A dried, clawed foot that appeared to have come from a large bird lay at the very bottom of her bag. The skin was scaly and shrunken, a muddy shade of grey brown. Were it not for the rust coloured ribbon tied to it, strung with a few coloured beads and sprigs of herbs, she may not have noticed it at all. This went way beyond anything they'd ever done before. They had given her a fetish.

Before she knew what she had done, she was up and out of her seat, running down the corridor with the incriminating bag on her shoulder. It would be ridiculous to presume that the fetish was a fake. It could well be, but too many in Slytherin house would have access to one - or the information on how to make one for themselves. The problem now was how to get rid of it. If a teacher or a prefect found her with what was so obviously a Dark object, she had no doubt that the punishment would be severe. She might even be expelled. It was too risky to try and burn it or spell it in any way, and she couldn't just throw it away - someone else might pick it up accidentally.

_I just need somewhere safe where no one will find it..._

She slowed to a stop, resting her hot flushed cheek against the cold stone wall, next to a tapestry she was sure she'd passed at least once since her flight from the classroom. Standing there, drawing great gasps of air, desperation closed over her like cold, icy water. Try as she might, she couldn't think of a simple way out. The sudden appearance of Mrs Norris, the caretaker's cat, at the end of the passage, was enough to send her into a blind panic. She was wandering the corridors during class time without a teacher's note or a legitimate, explainable reason that would satisfy Argus Filch. She quickly flung open a door on the wall opposite and ducked inside, shutting it as swiftly and silently behind her as she could. Then she turned.

It was a room she had never seen before; immense in size and filled with an incredible volume and assortment of objects. Her feet led her slowly up and down the rows. At first, she simply wandered, slightly awed and dazed, but her curiosity gradually grew and she began to investigate the piles of detritus with interest. All manner of trash and treasure was dumped, with no organisation apparent, on mismatched and battered furniture and shelves, stretching off into the distance. It was like the oddest antique and second hand shop she could have ever possibly imagined. She found herself peering into cloudy jars at what (she hoped) were animal organs, flipping idly through books and examining strange objects she could not identify. It was only after some time, when her feet had carried her quite a distance from the door, that she remembered the fetish with a sickening jolt.

Setting her bag gently on the floor as if a sudden jarring would cause it to explode, she knelt down and tentatively opened it. There lay the withered, clawed foot, unmistakably real and most likely dangerous. She didn't want to touch it with her bare hands; that would be very, very foolish. Looking around, she spied a particularly ugly set of dress robes from a thankfully bygone fashion era draped across a lumpy armchair with springs poking through the seat cushion. Wrapping a fold of the gaudy cloth carefully around her hand, she slowly and carefully lifted the fetish out and placed it on the stone floor.

In the bright light of the room, the fetish looked worse, if that was possible. The herb sprigs she recognised now that she could see them more clearly. Mullein, which admittedly could be used in certain protective spells and potions, but was used more commonly in Dark Magic spells and by Necromancers to raise spirits. Spanish Moss was not so borderline, as its only use that she knew of was in voodoo dolls to control another's actions or injure them, and in Dark spells against enemies. The rust red ribbon was stiff with what was likely blood, and it wasn't the only thing wrapped around the claw. There was a fine, twisted cord that looked suspiciously like human hair. Her hair, she assumed. The colour was certainly right.

Knowing even as she did it that it was monumentally stupid, she took one of the mangled quills from her bag and spent a couple of anxious moments disentangling her hair from the Dark object. Once it was separate, still using the point of the quill, she moved it a short distance away from the fetish. Then she drew out her wand, pointed it at the hair and murmured, “Incendio.” It vanished in a puff of nasty smelling smoke, and when after a minute nothing had happened, she let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

Casting her eyes about, she saw a large cupboard, the varnish curdled in a large splash, blistered and peeling. She still needed to hide this thing just in case it was still potent. The creaking doors revealed a large cage with some long petrified creature still inside. Perfect.

Swathing her hand in the old robes, she picked up the clawed foot again and carefully poked it through the bars to lie beside the dead thing. Now someone would have to open the cage and reach in to touch it, and considering the look of the creature inside, she thought that unlikely. The thing seemed misshapen and mutated, and even dead it made her uneasy. 

As she was starting to straighten up to close the door, she caught sight of a book, tucked away up the back of the cupboard. Had she not been bent down so close to the cage, she doubted she would have spotted it in the gloom. When she reached down the back of the cage and pulled it into the light, she felt disappointed. Although this book was in English, unlike most of the others she had glanced at, it was nothing more exciting than a Potions textbook. Why on earth anyone would hide a syllabus text was beyond her.

Idly flicking it open, she saw the margins were thick with tiny, handwritten notes. Though she was a good Potions student, she knew that the subject wasn’t one of her favourites. Charms were more her thing; a class she did do well at, and she enjoyed. She was about to return the book when she read another handwritten addition that gave her pause. _Sectumsempra. For enemies._

_For enemies…_

She flicked through the book swiftly, front to back, noting here and there more spells written in the margins. Some described their effects; others were just as ambiguously labelled as Sectumsempra had been. It was suddenly glaringly obvious to her why this book had been hidden. It wasn’t just a Potions text; it was a grimoire, a workbook.

She was amazed by the cleverness of it. A strange book of handwritten notes in a student’s bag would be instantly considered suspect in a search. But a textbook; that was to be expected. If the teacher didn’t open it, they would never know what they held.

She was sure that many of the spells written down in the text were unlikely to be on the syllabus. Otherwise, why write them down in such a covert way? But right now, an edge was what she needed, and if these spells could give her that edge… 

She could feel the desperation and despair of earlier leaving her like a cloud being blown away from the sun. Decisively, she closed the cupboard, stuffed the copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ into her bag, and left the strange room with a lightened heart. 

 

**************************************

 

Studying the book late that night with the bed curtains drawn, she felt increasingly optimistic. Charms was her strongest subject, after all, and that's all most jinxes and hexes were, when you looked at the theory. She'd been reading some of the more advanced Charms texts in her free time in the library for months. Though she hadn't gotten any real results with spells that were meant to be performed nonverbally (which, she noted with chagrin, some of the more interesting ones scribbled in the Potions book were) her Summoning Charms were marvellously precise, and she'd noted a distinct improvement in her Defence Against The Dark Arts classes since she began practising defensive charms and counter jinxes too. 

Professor Snape was teaching DADA this year rather than Potions, and was taking a practical approach to the Defensive Magic section of the course. When she'd produced a strong enough counter-jinx in class the other day to propel her practice partner back into a cabinet with enough force to crack the glass, rather than reprimanding her, Snape had berated the other girl for her poor technique, then caught her own eye and murmured, "Five points to Slytherin," before resuming his rounds. She'd noticed a small, self-satisfied smile twitch his lips as he said it, so she assumed he'd attributed her performance to his teaching methods. He didn't know about her late nights, awake, reading texts in bed, and her practice sessions in the Common Room in the early hours of the morning after everyone else was in bed. She could easily turn that time to studying and practicing these new spells.

Even knowing that she was only a Third Year didn't dissuade her. After all, she knew from talk in the Common Room that that Sixth Year boy, Harry Potter, had produced a Corporeal Patronus when he was only her age. There was a lot of talk about Potter, some tales more wild and bizarre than others, but the Patronus was universally accepted as being fact. He'd performed it the year before she'd come to Hogwarts - and, more incredibly, in front of the whole school during a Quidditch match, while in flight! As much as the Slytherins in general ridiculed Potter, even they didn't dispute it as truth, which was saying something. And if Potter could produce such an advanced Charm, while most of the time he seemed to be falling all over the place in faints (she heard he'd had an hysterical fit during an OWL exam last year), then surely she could manage this!

A week of fevered, late-night practice that left her only a few unsatisfactory pre-dawn hours at day for sleep produced very thrilling progress. The book went with her everywhere, from morning to evening. At night, she slept with it tucked under her pillow. She didn't want to take the risk that it could fall into enemy hands. While the non-verbal spells still eluded her, she had managed to use the Calvities Curse to great effect, resulting in one of her more spiteful and vain adversaries having to wear a knitted cap while she waited for her hair to grow back. Another foe had spent several tedious days in strict isolation after she turned a rather unpleasant shade of green, and was suspected by Madam Pomfrey to have contracted Dragon Pox. She thanked the Galbinus Hex for that one. It did eventually wear off, but in the interim the girl's pallor suggested she was suffering from a very nasty case of seasickness, despite being on dry land.

Though her roommates didn't _know_ it was her work, they weren't stupid. She felt much more self assured since she'd found the grimoire, and she could tell they'd sensed it, and the reason. Since the incident where the third of her tormentors to feel her revenge had grown a pig's tail (the Cauda Sus hex), her roommates still muttered behind her back, but the bullying eased, and the looks they gave her now contained an element of fear. Good. She wanted them to fear her. 

Tonight, sitting in the empty Common Room, flicking through the copy of Advanced Potion Making again, she spotted the entry that had first caught her eye. With the little quiver of pleasure she always felt when trying a new spell for the first time, she flicked her wand expertly at a cushion and quietly incanted, " _Sectumsempra!_ "

The cushion seemed to explode, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a tiny shriek. She sat for a long moment, her heart pounding, frozen in place as feathers floated down and settled on her hair and robes like snow out of season. Leaning over cautiously, she examined the cushion with trembling fingers. It hadn't exploded, but the effects of the curse were possibly more frightening still. It was ripped open, not roughly and raggedly, but in one clean slice, as if from a sword or the sharp claws of a hippogriff or tiger. She recognised, even in her fright, that the angle of the slash corresponded directly to the wand movement she had made; a roughly forty-five degree downwards stroke, from right to left. She could even see a small hole in the upholstery of the couch, where she had "overshot" her target a little.

 _It's a weapon_ , she realised. _A deadly weapon. Dark Magic._

She'd heard rumours, of course, about an attack a couple of weeks ago that had left one of the Slytherin Prefects in the hospital wing, with deep wounds from an illegal curse. There were rumblings of Harry Potter being involved, but she dismissed that as being the usual talk. The attack had been real, however - she had seen the healing marks on the face of the older boy herself when he returned to the dormitory. And the curse... _this curse_... had left a boy slit open and bleeding as if from a knife attack.

She felt suddenly, violently ill. For a moment she thought she might vomit. It wasn't the expected reactions of shock and horror that were the worst, but the little part of her that was excited by the power of the curse, and wanted more. It sickened and terrified her, even as she caught herself imagining it, _using_ it... _Who am I, that I can think this way about_ murder?

Attempts to mend the cushion failed, it remained as it was, spilling its downy innards accusingly. Whether this was some effect of the curse itself or simply her jangling nerves and unsteady hand, she didn't know. In the end, she simply stuffed it in the back of the storage cupboard and hoped nobody noticed it was missing, then gathered up the incriminating stray feathers and tossed them into the embers of the fire, ignoring the pungent smell. Picking up the book tentatively, as though it might bite her, she made her way back to her dormitory.

That night she slept little, if at all, the book burning a guilty hole in her mattress. All attempts to find the room it had come from between classes over the next few days failed. She was sure she was right about where the door had been, but somehow she could never find it where she thought it should be. And there always seemed to be people around. In the end she stuffed it under the mattress on her bed, hiding it with the most complex Concealing Charm she could think of, before heading up to the Great Hall to arrive in time for dessert.

 

**************************************

 

A few days later, the attack on the school drove the book completely from her mind. Professor Snape and the Slytherin Prefect with the healing curse-scars were gone, and the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, was... dead. She arrived home after the funeral, to her worried and angry parents. Professor McGonagall had owled every student's parents or guardians with a terse, formal statement about the events that had taken place.

"Well, they know where they can stick their school!" her furious father had fumed. "An armed gang invades the school at night. A teacher murders the headmaster and escapes. And they expect parents to send their kids to a place like that?"

Despite her protests, her parents would not be moved, and they enrolled her in the local comprehensive school her sister attended. It was quickly discovered that she knew nothing of French, trigonometry, geography, history. Her teachers were appalled ("What on earth do selective schools _teach_ children these days?") and she had been shunted to a lower grade, with children much younger than her, for "remedial lessons" to try and catch her up to the rest of her peers. To say it was humiliating was a gross understatement. She had never been anything lower than the top ten percent of her year. The quick arrival of the summer holidays was a blessed relief.

She didn't realise _Advanced Potion Making_ was missing until an unseasonably chilly, rainy day during the holidays, when she was tucked up in her room, flicking through her spell books with a kind of bored resignation. No more magic for her. Dropping her Charms text back on the bed with a sigh, she surveyed the volumes scattered around her. The grimoire wasn't there. She got up and dug through the trunk, pushing aside robes, scales and cauldron. Finally she pulled all the items out and heaped them on the floor, until the trunk was empty. No book. She'd left it behind, tucked under the mattress in the Slytherin dormitory, Concealed. 

She squashed her feelings of loss and frustration. _It's not like I'm ever going to be allowed to go back there, anyway. And I'm never going to use those spells again... that spell. Any spell. So why would I need it?_

 

**************************************

 

The letter from the Ministry of Magic containing the demand to present herself to the Muggleborn Registration Committee was greeted by her parents with casual indifference. Her father actually laughed. As far as they were concerned, it wasn't even an issue. This was the _real_ world, after all. The nice, normal, non-magical world. Their daughter was going to a normal comprehensive school with other normal children. All that strange magical stuff was shut in a trunk in her closet. It wasn't like she was _using_ magic - they knew about the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Wizardry, and that they would have received notice if she had done. Their attitude was that it shouldn't matter what their daughter _could_ do; if she was living as a normal, non-magical person did, as far as they were concerned, she _was_ one.

She couldn't help but feel that this was somehow naive and dangerous, though of course she couldn't say that to them in any way they would understand. The unease persisted, and she started sleeping with her wand, not in her nightstand, but under her pillow, clenched in one fist.

 

**************************************

 

It was closer to dawn than to midnight by the clock, the night the Snatchers came for her. She heard the front door blasted from its hinges, the alarmed shouts of her parents and sister, then their louder, more frightened cries when they discovered their doors were jammed shut somehow. She suspected that they thought they were being burgled. Well, they were right, in a way. She could see in her mind's eye, her father going for the telephone beside her parent's bed, desperately trying to call the police. It wouldn't work, of course.

Her wand was in her hand, hidden under the pillow, when the door of her bedroom slammed open. There were about half a dozen of them. Men with wands, men that smelled of firewhisky, pipe smoke and unwashed clothing, men that leered unpleasantly at what they could see of her fourteen-year-old, pyjama-clad body.

"Now, missy. I reckon you know who we are, and why we're here," the man who seemed to be the leader of the group began. She nodded, not trusting her voice. He smiled, showing crooked, yellowed teeth in the wand light. "Then you'll know to come quiet. Come quiet, and we won't have to hurt you. Make a fuss... " he trailed off, and a couple of the others sniggered predatorily. 

"Alright," she murmured softly, hating the quiver in her voice.

The leader of the Snatchers smiled again. "Get up then, nice and slow, and turn to face the wall. You've got five wands on you, so don't try nothing."

She knew what she had to do, even though she knew it was useless, futile. Her fingers, damp with cold sweat, tightened on the concealed wand. Again she seemed to hear old Mr Ollivander's voice as he handed it to her in his shop in Diagon Alley; _Apple wood, Unicorn hair, seven and a quarter inches. Inflexible._ Of course, Mr Ollivander was gone now, too. Had been for over a year. His shop was closed and dusty when she went to get her books last year. As her feet touched the floor and she began to straighten up, she suddenly whipped the wand out, slashing it viciously and precisely in a straight line, right to left, crying out clearly and unwaveringly the curse she swore she'd never use again, in the dark hours of the last night she'd used the hidden grimoire written in the margins of _Advanced Potion Making_ , a million years ago back at Hogwarts. " _SECTUMSEMPRA!_ "

In the instant before the four Stunning Spells hit her, she saw the gush of dark blood flow from the ruined throat of the leader of the Snatchers, the blank surprise in his eyes, the pale face, the mouth agape in pain and shock. Then she felt herself lifted off her feet by the blast of magic, and knew no more.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for inaccuracies, in particular relating to the practices of voodoo and hoodoo regarding the fetish. I searched, but found very little to guide me. In the end I created something from my own imagination that loosely approximates to what many people would consider a vaudun-style power item. I used the more familiar and generic word “fetish” rather than other terms such as gris gris or tricken bag, to avoid confusing readers, and because my fetish isn’t a real voodoo or hoodoo item. Despite common culture’s attitude to and beliefs surrounding fetishism, depending on the intention, a fetish can be a positive or a negative item. (In fact, the Western superstition of a rabbit’s foot being “lucky” is a form of fetishism.)
> 
> Anyone who wants a much more accurate idea of hoodoo, voodoo and African-origin spiritual traditions should read, among other things, Barbara Hambly’s wonderful Benjamin January series. The information about the herbs tied to my fetish I found at http://herb-magic.com/index.html , and the Latin words for my invented spells were found at http://humanum.arts.cuhk.edu.hk/Lexis/Latin


End file.
